


Office Space

by DustOnBothSides



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Hugging, M/M, Office After Hours, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustOnBothSides/pseuds/DustOnBothSides
Summary: Armitage has troubles in the office and finds that leaving would be the best solution.





	Office Space

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to all those who find offices after hours to be among the scariest places on this planet.

>   
> 
> 
> Hux raised his head and looked out of the window at the rivulets of rain zigzagging down the thick pane of glass. 
> 
> He had been sitting at his desk for the last several minutes, face buried in his hands, shoulders hunched, feeling entirely okay with being like that even though his back started to hurt. But there was a limit to this idleness. Unless he stopped, rumours would start to circle. Of that he was sure. 
> 
> Large beads of sweat ran down his forehead and matted his perfectly sculpted hair. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it, his eyes still glued to the window. Not only did the rains not let up, clouds had arrived and swallowed the entire business district. He could no longer see the angular shapes of other skyscrapers, which formed the view that became so familiar to him over the years. It made him feel out of place. It made him feel lost. 
> 
> He couldn’t let that show under any circumstances. Showing weakness meant inviting the pack of piranhas he called his _‘colleagues’_ to bare their teeth at him. Eventually they would tear him apart, one bite at a time. He had witnessed this before. It started with a missing coffee cup or a post-it note with a nebulous message written with perfectly angular block writing, and ended with resignation letters, stomach ulcers and alcoholism. 
> 
> “Quite a weather we have.” He said out loud. 
> 
> The silence of the office was hardly ever disturbed. Everyone worked, everyone minded their own business. The one that chose to disturb this state of affairs was considered either brave or foolish. And no one was foolish enough to think Hux was the latter. 
> 
> He waited for the usual murmur of agreement, but-
> 
> There was silence. 
> 
> He tore himself away from the window and saw with no small alarm that the office was empty. 
> 
> Every monitor was dark, every laptop tucked away, desktops were cleared off all papers, reports and printed e-mails, there wasn’t a single jacket or cardigan thrown over a backrest. Even the bins were all empty. The air, too, was void of its usual qualities. Gone was the scent of coffee, the ghosts of dozens of colognes, and the ephemeral aroma of reheated takeaways. Only the smell of paper remained. Paper, cleaning products and dust. 
> 
> A chill ran down Hux’s spine in spite of the heat which slowly consumed his body from within. 
> 
> He wiped at his forehead again, not noticing the few drops of sweat which had landed on the desktop. 
> 
> Was this a prank?
> 
> He got up. Immediately, a wave of vertigo rolled over him. 
> 
> The office space. It looked so vast and so… frail. Now that it was empty, it was no longer defined by the numerous workstations, but rather by the two immense horizontal planes of the ceiling and the floor. The few pillars separating those appeared as brittle as matchsticks. Hux had the feeling that any time soon they would snap, that both planes would come together and crush everything between them to dust. 
> 
> He dug his fingernails into the clammy meat of his palms, closed his eyes and counted to ten. 
> 
> The vertigo was somewhat mitigated, so he made a beeline for the kitchenette, where he could wash his hands and hold his wrists under a stream of cool water. He was surprised to find it empty as well. There was not a single dirty cup in the sink, or even an empty water glass smudged with fingermarks and lip stains. By the end of a normal workday, the sink was always chock-full of plates, bowls, mugs, and glasses, left there for the cleaning staff to take care of. 
> 
> He frowned, grabbed a bottle of mineral water and put it to his lips. 
> 
> What was going on in here?
> 
> The water soothed his burning throat and was so delicious, he emptied half of the small bottle in one go. And then-
> 
> He froze. 
> 
> His ears picked up a sound so soft, it might’ve been just his imagination. The sound of footsteps on a soft, heavy-duty carpet. Right behind him. 
> 
> He spun around, only to face nothing, only to face the emptiness of a deserted print and copy area with its dark photocopiers, empty paper baskets and futile pleas for the sake of the environment.
> 
> Hux narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the bottle. He didn’t plan on showing how distraught he was. He realised that hearing that sound might’ve been just his nerves playing tricks on him, but he wouldn’t have gotten where he was if he doubted himself and his instincts. He wasn’t sure what was going on. Perhaps there’s been a fire drill announced while he had an episode of microsleep, perhaps it was after hours already, perhaps this was someone’s weird idea of a prank - he didn’t know. He just knew he wouldn’t play along. 
> 
> He checked his watch. It was forty minutes past four in the afternoon. Ten minutes after the end of the working day. Way too early for the office to be this empty, silent and clean. 
> 
> He took another sip of the water, wiped his face again, and returned to the other end of the office where his desk was. 
> 
> As he walked, he could hear them again. Those sounds. So soft and careful. He concentrated on his peripheral vision. Nothing moved, there was not even a flicker of a shadow. Hux frowned. He was not a prey to be hunted. (As soon as he thought that, the corner of his mouth twitched. He pictured a stately deer, grazing on the vaguely green carpet of the office. It was so bizarre, he couldn’t help but find it amusing.)
> 
> He grabbed his briefcase and jacket. His computer was off. When did he shut it down? Well, that didn’t really matter. He refused to care. Tried to think of something else as he walked towards the exit with a deliberately unhurried pace. There was no need for concern. No one here could show better results than him, and he was also known for his efficiency and professionalism. He had nothing to be worried about. 
> 
> As he opened the exit door, he turned around to take one last look at the office. One which a person of his standing would take in order to make sure that nothing is amiss. Empty. Everything was empty and brittle. And the sound was still there, slightly more distinct than before. It came from the filing room. He glared in its direction, closed the door and turned his key in the lock. Whoever was inside could call the security to be let out, and that would serve them right. 
> 
> Hux turned towards the lifts… 
> 
> …and the briefcase almost slipped from his hand. 
> 
> Lifts weren’t there. 
> 
> In fact, most of the corridor wasn’t there. It seemed to be under renovation. Empty elevator shafts were boarded up. Large swaths of the floor were bare, the yellowish-green carpet he knew from the office still lining the walls in form of tightly-packed rolls. Some of the dropped ceiling panels were missing and only about half of the lighting fixtures was on. 
> 
> Hux’s eyes flickered from one corner of the spacious corridor to the other and his mind refused to believe them. So deep was his confusion that he completely forgot about what he left behind in the office. But that wasn’t meant to last. 
> 
> His hand was still on the handle so he could clearly feel it. The way its stainless steel surface began to heat up. First he mistook it for the warmth of his hand, but its temperature kept rising until it became impossible to hold on. He let go- and the lever moved slowly downwards. Instincts overtook Hux’s mind and made him block it with his right forearm as his free hand searched feverishly for the bundle of keys. They were in his right pocket. The pressure on the handle steadily increased and Hux had trouble keeping it up while simultaneously attempting to jam the office key in the narrow keyhole. By the time he succeeded, the fabric of his jacket spread the same scent he smelled whenever he touched it with a hot iron. 
> 
> He left the key in horizontal position so it would remain jammed and quickly rushed away. This was too weird even for the most elaborate of pranks. 
> 
> Everything changed. The whole layout of the floor. None of the hallways led where they were supposed to and everything was in the same, half-built state. The only reason why he didn’t start running yet was because he was desperately trying to keep his wits about him. Running meant panic. 
> 
> He reached an intersection and decided to take the left turn. 
> 
> He had scarcely managed to take a couple of steps when a loud crash resounded through the entire floor. Hux had very little doubt about the origin of said noise. The office door had been kicked out. Of that he was sure. He broke into the quietest run possible, eyes scanning for any escape routes. Oddly enough, there was nothing, not even a single fire exit, not one sign with a white stick figure on a green background, running away from flames. (Did it mean the stick-like man was not meant to escape? Hux shook his head. Bad time to have stupid thoughts.) 
> 
> The hallways were curving, dividing and merging in extremely improbable patterns. He was sure their length far outstripped the dimensions of the skyscraper. They had no end, stretching on to forever. 
> 
> But ‘forever’ was not something at Hux’s disposal. 
> 
> He couldn’t just mindlessly run around. He’d be like a deer caught in a fenced-off orchard. Sooner or later he’d go down. 
> 
> Giving up on finding an exit, he hid in the first convenient room. 
> 
> It was somewhat more furnished than the rest of the floor, but what Hux found inside did not exactly spark relief. 
> 
> It was a copy and print room with grey walls, paper-strewn floor in lieu of a carpet and, most importantly, a massive pile of photocopiers, scanners and printers just dumped all together. 
> 
> He stared at the clutter as he was trying to catch his breath, and gradually a sense of incredulousness came over him. Was this really happening? Was he hiding under a shelving unit, trying to make himself as small as possible? He was a manager, dammit. He was not supposed to be here. He was _not_ … supposed… to be here.
> 
> Biting his lip, he looked at the pile of papers littering the floor and realised they were all copies. None of them contained any text, or even a photo, only single one thing. A strangely fuzzy handprint, pitch-black in colour. Strangest of all was, that though the darkness of the hand was same on each and every copy, its size differed. Some hands could’ve belonged to toddlers while others to seasoned miners. And all of them were completely, perfectly black. As if the people who made these prints wore fluffy black gloves. Which was just alarming. Why would anyone do something like that? For what reason? 
> 
> Hux shuddered, deeply unsettled by this show of absurdity, but didn’t stop paying attention to the world outside. He almost held his breath when he heard a distant noise. A door was being closed somewhere. 
> 
> Heaving a sigh of relief, he emerged from his hiding place and ran out of the room. Softly. Quietly. 
> 
> Since he didn’t run quite as fast as before, he could notice some change in the hallways. 
> 
> Carpet was now all gone and so was most of the dropped ceiling. Only a fragile skeleton remained above his head, revealing an organised chaos of wires, thin tubes and blue pipes, each neatly bracketed and bound. Because of the lack of panelling and its fluorescent tubes, most of the illumination was provided by yellow-coloured construction lighting. Walls were nothing but bare plasterboard. Whenever he reached a more spacious part of the maze, he saw stacks of these panels as well as OSBs, all marked with a red and white tape. 
> 
> He reached another intersection, turned left and… and he felt _heat_ behind his back. Terrible, scorching heat. And he knew he was tricked. That far-away sound of door closing was meant to lull him in a false sense of security – and it succeeded. The one from the office was right there. Right behind his back. 
> 
> His run turned into a mad dash. The walls around him started to show scorch marks. A wave of heat brushed against his back. The sweat which had soaked his shirt so copiously before was now all dry. He could even smell the stink of burning hair. Of _his_ hair burning. It hurt. He felt the skin of his shoulder blades crackle, and the cracks filled with salt from his dried sweat. It stung. It stung and hurt. And though he was awash in the breath of that hellish being, he still couldn’t hear anything but those soft footsteps. 
> 
> He tried to speed up, but he was too tired. He couldn’t keep this up. His body was too weak. 
> 
> But then his nose caught a scent which made his heart beat faster. 
> 
> He decided to follow it. 
> 
> He turned right at the next intersection and found himself passing through a row of identical kitchenettes. He noticed a familiar mug on the countertop. A black one with red polka dots. He couldn’t quite recall whom did it belong to, but knew it was _important_. Each kitchenette had the same mug on its countertop, but with each one he passed, the crockery selection grew. 
> 
> At first there was only that one mug. Then it was accompanied by a bowl. (A bowl of udon. Udon with eggs, spring onions and stripes of chicken meat. He loves it. Always heaves a sigh of content after finishing that last piece of noodle.) Then a plate. (A plate of sandwiches. He likes his with chicken and blue cheese. The go-to food while he’s too busy.)
> 
> Each new piece of crockery brought a memory Hux couldn’t quite place. 
> 
> The feeling of arms wrapped around him as he watched the rain fall. 
> 
> The soothing heartbeat against his back while he sat in a tub, submerged in water scented with expensive oils. 
> 
> His fingers intertwined with other, stronger ones.
> 
> When he heard the clamour of destruction just behind his back, Hux despaired. He imagined all those walls being brought down, mugs crushed, bowls hurled against the walls and plates shattered. 
> 
> He…
> 
> He couldn’t live without that sweet scent. Without the memories bound to the crockery. 
> 
> Without _him._
> 
> The one who prepared the udon. The one who made the sandwiches. 
> 
> Hux passed through the last kitchenette and noticed a new addition to the immense pile of crockery. 
> 
> It was a mug. A simple blue-grey mug without a pattern. A mug of Shui Xian. _His_ mug. All of those previous ones belonged to Ben. Hux’s eyes grew wide. Ben. Ben. Ben. How could he have forgotten? Ben. _His_ Ben. In this last kitchenette, their mugs were next to each other. 
> 
> Hux looked up and saw a door of Prussian blue in the opposite wall. 
> 
> He kicked it open and rushed through it- only to fall, fall into the bottomless darkness.
> 
>  
> 
> Hux blinked. He was awake. Had he been sleeping? Had someone knocked him out? He wasn’t sure. His body felt like lead and his throat was parched. He remembered the heat from before and how he felt his skin crack and closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the images.
> 
> He remembered falling. 
> 
> Was he still in that office space?
> 
> He opened his eyes.
> 
> Dropped ceiling was there alright, but that was the only similarity. Walls in this room were white-washed and their first four feet were painted cerulean blue. They were decorated with framed photos of forests. A large window provided him with a view of a rainy park with old ladies walking their dogs and kids in yellow raincoats running about.
> 
> Besides. He was lying in a bed and in spite of their numerous facilities, no office space would ever include this piece of furniture. 
> 
> Actually- yes, he was in an actual bed. With an IV drip connected to the back of his hand and in a light green gown in place of his suit. 
> 
> This was a hospital. 
> 
> Before his confusion could go even deeper, a soft noise disturbed his train of thoughts. He turned his head and saw Ben. Ben, slumbering in an armchair. His clothes were dishevelled, hair lank and matted. It was amazing to see how a man of his size could fold into an armchair as small as that. 
> 
> One of his hands was lying on the mattress. Hux reached out for it, something primal within his breast urging him to do so. He closed his fingers around Bens. They were wonderfully cool. He tried to squeeze them. 
> 
> “…Ben.” He croaked. His throat was positively desiccated. “Ben.”
> 
> The sleeping man twitched and opened his eyes. 
> 
> There was a pause, and then he launched itself on Hux, wrapping him in a tight but gentle embrace. Hux felt the tingle of his breath against the bare skin of his neck’s juncture. 
> 
> “Armitage. Thanks god. I was so worried…”
> 
> “What happened?” Hux choked out. A strange emotion squeezed his chest along with Ben’s arms. He suspected his eyes would grow moist if his body had any moisture to spare. 
> 
> “You collapsed with a fever. You’ve been unconscious for over a day. Christ, it felt like you were burning up…”
> 
> “So it was all a dream.” Hux realised with no small relief. 
> 
> “What was?” Ben asked, looking up at him.
> 
> Hux considered telling him all about it, but then he rejected the idea. Perhaps some other time. Not now, when this beautiful hulk of a man laid on his chest, adding a wonderful weight to the lead which constituted Hux’s body. 
> 
> He smiled at Ben and ran his fingers through those long, dark tresses. 
> 
> “Should’ve known you’d save me even _there._ ”
> 
> “Hm? Save you where?”
> 
> “Oh, it’s nothing.”
> 
> “Should I get you some water?”
> 
> _Yes_ , Hux’s body screamed. 
> 
> “No.” lips replied, arms pulling Ben closer. “Let’s just stay like this for a bit.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Written almost entirely on a rainy day while listening to the Session 9 soundtrack, with the occasional addition of some selected tracks from F.E.A.R.. Fatal Frame 3 ost also works. Proofread in an actual office. 
> 
> Also, I know one shouldn't iron suit jackets directly, but I didn't want to disturb the flow of the story with ironing tips and tricks. 
> 
> ❤ Kudos and comments will be much appreciated - they're the water to the flowerbed of my mind. ❤


End file.
